“Waiting for the Unicorn” | Open Indiana

Singde (Ch’eng-te, Jung-jo; LENG-CHIA SHAN-JEN), sometimes also given as Nara Singde, was a noble descendant of the highly placed and influential Yehe Nara clan which traced its origins to Turmed Mongol stock, and the firstborn son of Mingju and his wife, a daughter of the Prince Ying, Ajige (1605–1651), the twelfth son of Nurhaci. Mingju enjoyed a spectacular official career, culminating in his being named a grand secretary in 1677. For the next decade, he was one of the most powerful men in the empire. He was a patron of the arts, an avid collector of objets d’art, and a host to many of the leading poets of his day. Ch’en Wei-sung, Chu Yi-tsun (qq.v.), Yen Sheng-sun (1623–1702), and Ch’in Sung-ling (1637–1714), among others, were guests at one time or another at his palatial residence in the Forbidden City.

Singde was tutored in traditional letters by Chinese scholars, and in 1676 he placed well in the palace examinations. As a member of the Plain Yellow Banner, he was appointed to the Imperial Bodyguard as an officer of the third rank, thus becoming a member of the imperial retinue. In that capacity, he regularly accompanied the K’ang-hsi emperor on state visits to sacrificial shrines, the ancestral tombs, hunting parks and watering spas, and the Manchu ancestral homeland. In 1684, he visited the Yangtze valley region as a member of the imperial entourage. Two years earlier he had been sent north to the Amur River valley as a member of an imperial mission investigating Russian encroachments in that area. At the age of thirty, he took ill and died quite suddenly, thus ending a short but brilliant political and literary career.

Singde is widely regarded as one of the finest tz’u poets of the seventeenth century, and by some as the leading master of that form during the last three centuries of imperial rule. The modern critic Wang Kuo-wei (q.v.) is unstinting in his praise: “Singde observed things with an unclouded vision and described emotions in the patterns of natural speech. . ., and thus is his poetry genuine and incisive. Since Northern Sung times there has been only one such person as this.” A close student of the tz’u form, Singde admired especially the early masters, such as Li YÜ (937–978), and it is therefore not surprising that he favored the shorter, or hsiao-ling, modes, although he did not fail to utilize the longer modes as well. As Wang Kuo-wei and others have noted, his tz’u poems are graced by a simple, direct language, one that is relatively unencumbered by heavy ornament and allusion. Like the earlier poet Li Yü, to whom he has often been compared, his verse is imbued with emotion, often of a personal nature, and almost always melancholy in tone. The sorrows of separation and longing, of the partings of friends, of the death of his wife, or the transience of human life, of a nostalgic yearning for an untrammeled, simple life—all conventional enough as traditional themes—are movingly and beautifully expressed in his verse. Where one might have expected this poet of alien ancestry to have sounded a different note, that is not the case, for even his pien-sai (“border”) verse assumes a conventional Chinese view of the northern desert regions as an unfriendly, inhospitable land. And it is these Chinese rather than alien visions that characterize the content of his poems, and which account in part for his popularity.

Although seldom remarked on, Singde was also an accomplished master of other poetic and literary forms. The same qualities of language, diction, and emotional texture are to be found in his shih poetry, which accounts for approximately 40 percent of his total corpus. His collected works also include casual essays, as well as prefaces written for scholarly works, such as the well-known collectanea T’ung-chiht’ang ching-chieh, of which he was one of the sponsors and possibly also a compiler.

Although he was the scion of a great and powerful family and courtier to the illustrious K’ang-hsi emperor (q.v.), the poetry of Singde reflects less the wealth and grandeur of his place and time than it does the inner turmoil and frustrated longings of a remarkably gifted and sensitive man caught up in one kind of existence but longing for another.

(William Schultz)

____________________

1. Chao-ying Fang, ECCP, 2:662–663.

A Song of the Wild Crane: Presented to a Friend

Once a crane lived in the wilds,

Year around never seeing the sight of man;

At dawn it drank blue ravine waters,

At dusk nested along azure streams.

Then, without warning, struck by a crossbow bolt,

It raised its head to gaze at the blue clouds.

I, too, was once a mad scholar,

Viewing wealth and honor as mere swansdown;

I sought to break free, but the way was closed,

So I turned about and sought an official’s tassels.

In action, I appear to follow the wall;

Secretly, I hide myself, flee from fame.

Fortunately, you are a true friend,

Unchanged by the ways of the world.

How I wish to go away with you,

Our hearts in tune, pure as the flowing water!

(YSSC, 11b-12a)

(Tr. William Schultz)

In Imitation of Ancient-Style Poetry

The north wind blowing through the barren willows,

The temporal sequence suddenly resumes its pace.

Pavilion grasses have withered all away;

Looking back, I see the white sun quicken its race.

Originally, I was an easygoing man,

Doing nothing to restrain or bind myself.

Free and easy, I put my trust in Heaven,

For a cage was not what I desired.

Alas, the cries of the Hua-t’ing cranes!¹

Honor, fame—nothing but disgrace.

A traveler in this world, I sigh over middle age,

Take up the goblet and write a Golden Valley preface.²

The wine jar empty, everyone departs;

In these comings and goings, why be hasty?

Clutching my clothes about me, I take up a song;

The bright moon is as lustrous as a jewel.

(No. 40 from a series of 40; YSSC, 7b)

(Tr. William Schultz)

Tune: P’u-sa man

Yellow clouds, purple ramparts—three thousand li;

West of crenelated walls, tower ravens take wing.

In the setting sun, the myriad hills are cold;

Whinnying, the hunting horse returns.

Unbearable is the sound of reed pipes;

Night approaches, the empty tower grows dark.

Autumn dreams fail to carry me home;

From a fading lamp fall fragments of flowers.

(NLT, 1:10a)

(Tr. William Schultz)

The north wind blows, scattering the third-watch snow;

Lady Ch’ien’s soul still loves the peach blossom moon.

The dream is good, so don’t awaken her;

Leave it to wander in pleasant realms.

Why now do I hear the sound of the painted horn?

Beside the pillow, a few frozen rogue tears.

The border horse nickers but once;

Scattered stars brush the great banner.

(NLT, 1:9a-b)

(Tr. William Schultz)

Tune: Huan hsi sha³

Who knows how cold, how lonely the west wind?

Yellow leaves dryly rustle, choking the latticed window.

Lost in thoughts of bygone days, I stand in the fading light.

Intoxication with wine did not disturb our deep springtime slumbers;

The quoting game dispersed the fragrance spreading from the brewing tea—

Those were pleasures we regarded then as everyday affairs!

(NLT, 1:4b)

(Tr. William Schultz)

Heading for cloud-mantled mountains, I press on to the other side;

The north wind rages, cutting off the sound of the horse’s neighing.

Late autumn and a distant border conspire to stir my emotions!

One slash of evening mist above a deserted rampart;

Half a staff high, the sun slants across an old frontier town.

Dark regrets of past and present, when will they be put to rest?

(NLT, 1:6b)

(Tr. William Schultz)

Tune: Ch’ing-yü an (Green Jade Cup)
Stopping Overnight at Black Dragon River

The east wind churns the ground, whirling upwards elm tree pods;

Now that it has passed by—

This vast pall of snow—

I envision fragrant chambers, incense permeating everything.

Who ould know that tonight,

By Black Dragon River,

Alone, I would face the new moon?

The passionate are not inclined to frequent partings;

Partings are devised only for the passionate.

Butterflies dream of the myriad flowers; flowers dream of butterflies.

When will we meet again

By the west window to trim the candle

And talk at length of today’s affairs?

(NLT, 3:10b-11a)

(Tr. William Schultz)

Tune: Yi Chiang-nan (Remembering the South)

Beautiful is the South,

But who will transmit, who cherish its ancient lore?

By Swallow Promontory, the moon over red smartweed flowers;

Along Blue Coat Lane, mists clinging to blue willows—

A scene to recall those years.

(NLT, 5:1b)

(Tr. William Schultz)

Title: Impressions of a Night’s Stay at Shuang-lin Temple

Heart turned to ashes,

Hair long, not yet a true monk am I.

Eroded by wind and rain: life and death partings;

How like an old companion: a solitary lamp.

Feelings persisting, I cannot awaken.

(NLT, 2:9b-10a)

(Tr. William Schultz)

III

After the leaves have quivered and fallen,

How can one bear to hear the clear wind blowing?

In the dark, whirling leaves at Golden Well rustle, rustle,

And suddenly the sounds of still air and bell are heard;

This luckless one salutes a famous beauty.⁴

(NLT,2:9b-10a)

(Tr. William Schultz)

Even the crows have gone.

I linger, alas, for whom?

Impatient snow flutters like catkins into the fragrant room,

A breeze stirs the plum branch in the vase,

That “heart” has already turned to ashes!⁵

(NLT,1:1a)

(Tr. Julie Landau)

Tune: Che-ku t’ien (Cuckoo Sky)

Cold and silent, the dew deep in the night;

The crows unsteady, perching in the winter wind

How I hate the insistent battle drum from the tower

That keeps a soldier from returning—even in dreams!

Drab autumn,

A crescent moon,

No one gets up to gaze into its depths

At dawn a horse will take me on, another place—the same longing

If you knew how many mountains are rising between us!

(NLT, 3:1b)

(Tr. Julie Landau)

Tune: Chin-lou ch’ü (Song of Gold-Thread Jacket)
Title: Sent to Liang-fen⁶

I fear the fragrance of a full cup

When, deep in the night, vague drunken shadows

Dance with the fading lamplight

The new moon hangs in the curved passage as it did, still

Unstable; the sound of the bamboo, discordant

I ask: is sorrow deep as a spring night is long?

Is Swallow Tower⁷ empty? Are the strings of the lute cold?

Let the pear blossoms fall—no one can stop them

In dreams I hear their whispered call

I wish the east wind would wash away this feeling

Instead it brings a trace of perfume when I’m already sick with wine—

And doubles it!

Pity Chiang Yen,⁸ worn by separation—

How can I bear light cold light warmth

When I remember talking endlessly over tea

As drop by drop the candles shed red tears in the west window?

My anguish then, compounded day by day,

I confide to angular pillows

In lonely inns

(NLT, 4:8a-8b)

(Tr. Julie Landau)

NOTES

1. The poet Lu Chi is reported to have lamented, on being led off to the execution ground, that he would never again hear the crying of the cranes at Hua-t’ing, the family estate located in the lower Yangtze valley.

2. Shih Ch’ung (249–300), a man of great wealth, made his famous estate called Golden Valley a meeting place for poets and a place for extravagantly lavish parties. These events were recorded in a famous preface by Shih Ch’ung himself.

3. Given here in its more popular form. Na-lan tz’u, followed by some other editions, gives the title as Huan sha ch’i (Silk-washing Sand Stream), referring to the same tune title.

4. Some editions of Singde’s poetry make this poem the second stanza of the poem immediately above, but distinctive differences between the two in topic and tone recommend their being taken as separate verses, as the modern critic Li Hsü has done.

5. Alluding to a poem by the poet Yang Wan-li (1124–1206), where the word “heart” has a double meaning: the incense and the poet’s heart, both of which have turned to ashes.

6. The courtesy name of the lyric poet Ku Chen-kuan (1637–1714?), one of Singde’s closest friends.

7. Swallow Tower (Yen-tzu lou), located in Hsü-chou, Kiangsu province, is said to have been built by a T’ang official, Chang Chien-feng (735–800), for his favorite concubine Kuan P’an-p’an. Upon Chang’s death, Kuan refused to remarry and lived in this tower for fifteen years until she eventually died of self-induced hunger.

8. Chiang Yen (444–505), a poet of the Six Dynasties period, was admired for his literary talents as a young man and as the author of two rhyme-prose compositions entitled respectively, “On Parting” and “On Remorse.”

Waiting for the Unicorn